


hot summer nights

by pyoilu



Category: Block B
Genre: Chance Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyoilu/pseuds/pyoilu
Summary: so the DJ falls in love with the rich boy all in one night.





	

The summer was quiet and airless, the first away from home. It was supposed to be the hottest on record since the summer of ‘58, and the heat was blistering. It pulsed bright and hectic through the living room windows; thrift shop curtains doing little to keep the heat out. Even at night as headlights shined blue like undreamed of ghost lights, the moon showed white and the air didn’t move but seemed to close in, like stone from a crumbling wall, pressing hard against Jihoon’s skin until he was left with a film of sweat over every inch of himself.

 

It was misery coming from everywhere at once.

 

*

 

'Where’s your goddamn shirt?’

 

Jihoon calmly lifted his head from the back of the sofa, blinking slowly. The air had been off since the early morning—too hot to run the motor during the day, which was arguably the stupidest thing Jihoon had ever fucking heard—and with three fans running loudly from all corners of the living room, Jihoon threw an arm over his chest to cover himself. But it was only for show. Jiho didn’t actually give a shit.

 

'Why’s it so fucking hot,’ he whined from the kitchen. The refrigerator whirred as the door was opened; a bottle cap popped, sounding like a far away air soft gun. And then, drowsily, Jiho sulked from kitchen to sofa with a Coke in one hand, his nearly dead phone in the other. There was a mark like a bruise red and swollen on the side of his neck that Jihoon eyed stolidly, then ignored.

 

'Kyung got the gig for us,’ Jiho said offhandedly, as if it wasn’t something important. But a smile curled gently at the edge of his mouth as Jihoon wriggled closer, hands pulling animatedly at the collar of Jiho’s t-shirt.

 

’ _Seriously_?’ His voice, gone without use since the night before, cracked terribly. They both laughed, gentle giggles mostly nervous with disbelief. 'Jiho-yah, we have a _gig_? A real fucking gig?’

 

Proudly—and why wouldn’t he be?—Jiho nodded, taking a large pull from the Coke as if it was a beer. One that tasted wonderfully, at that. He chugged half of it before setting the bottle on the side table. His hand was ice cold as he patted it against Jihoon’s cheek.

 

'A real _fucking_ gig,’ he grinned. 'Can you believe it? Guess your hyung’s not so bad after all, huh?’

 

Jihoon was too excited to take the bait, make a jab. They’d have time to play after the show. But he moved when Jiho moved, following him closely, right on his heels—hopping along, really—as Jiho moved from the living room to his bedroom, where the thick black curtains were closed, emitting warmth, but not nearly as hot as Jihoon’s own room.

 

Jiho opened his laptop, screen bright with blue phosphorescence. 'It’s at the Wombat. Some place downtown.’ He showed the venue: an ancient looking building with a lopsided sign, but an otherwise decent place. There was twenty-odd pictures of the dance floor, the second story, a place that looked like a basement but was apparently a tavern. And it wasn’t much, a little rusty looking and dull in color, but Jihoon’s heart fluttered like bird’s wings as he thought of the mixes he’d spin with Jiho, the ring in his ear he’d hear for days after.

 

'It’s tonight,’ Jiho said quickly, like he’d wanted Jihoon to mishear. 'Well, like, we gotta leave in a couple hours.’

 

Jihoon’s eyes widened. Inky black and full of shock. 'A couple hours?’ His voice sounded tiny. It’d be embarrassing had it been important. 'The _hell_ , Jiho?’

 

'Don’t get upset.’

 

’ _Hours_?’

 

'We can throw something together right now, ok? Don’t —Stop freaking out, man.’

 

Jihoon’s head thumped dully against the door as he stared at the ceiling, mind falling in on itself. 'We have to make a full playlist in a couple hours. Why did Kyung—’

 

'It’s not his fault.’

 

'Then why did _you—_ ’

 

'I meant to text you about it last night,’ Jiho whined, tossing his head back as if anguished. 'I forgot, ok? I’m fucking human, Jihoonie. So, like, could we just… work on it? Without bitching.’

 

Exasperated sigh, Jihoon’s head felt empty. He couldn’t remember song titles, not a single one. What had he listened to that morning? What was on his phone. He stared at the ceiling with his brow creased with anxiety, wondering, wondering— 'God, you _suck_ , hyung.’

 

Jiho’s arm, heavy and protective and soothing in an odd kind of way, rest easily over Jihoon’s bare shoulders. 'We’ll figure it out, alright? Mellow out.’

 

*

 

And it did end up being alright—sort of. They had managed to stay clear of the Top 40, played songs by PARTYNEXTDOOR, a B-side by Drake that Jihoon thought maybe he’d heard once at a party back in high school, and something by a woman whose name he couldn’t pronounce. He’d left the English songs to Jiho who seemed to know what he was doing—he definitely knew how to hype a crowd. But the native songs were Jihoon’s playground and after playing a particularly long one, and watching the wave of music move like euphoria over the crowd—sweating bodies and tangled limbs like knotted shoelaces—the pulse of his heart sped up, and he too felt the euphoria like rapture spill into him.

 

It’d been months since their last gig. Two, possibly three; Jihoon still remembered the dread of it all. Spinning discs numbly after spending nights, sleepless and drowsy, piecing together playlists like a particularly difficult puzzle. How the crowd had not noticed—not for a single second—when the DJ changed shift and Jihoon walked up behind the booth, headphones about his neck and the weight of Jiho close to his side. It had felt alright, for at least a little while, before the bar became packed and Jiho played six English songs in a row and something that sounded terribly 80s. If he thought hard enough—which, sometimes he did, even dreamt of it like a bad date memory, the first awful day of school: traumatizing—Jihoon could remember every small detail down to the drunk guy at the bar who had been wearing a navy blue shirt with the collar flipped up, looking like an asshole.

 

A mess. It’d all been a mess. Which, admittedly, was something Jiho was good at making. But tonight it was alright and the music was good and the crowd didn’t complain, not a single one of them wasted or wanting a fight. They danced and they had fun, and Jihoon leaned his forehead to the side of Jiho’s face and shouted, 'I think this is the best one we’ve done yet,’ and he meant every word of it. Even when, an hour later, Jiho played David Lee Roth and sang along loudly enough to be heard by any passersby. Jihoon felt too good to let it bother him.

 

*

 

'Kyung wants to meet up,’ Jiho shouted. Or at least Jihoon _thought_ Jiho was shouting. His cheeks were a rosy pink and the veins in his neck looked a little swollen as he spoke, as if he was yelling every word, but they all came muffled and watered down like the engines of distant airplanes.

 

’ _What_?’ Jihoon yelled back.

 

Jiho rolled his eyes and took the cuff of Jihoon’s shirt. He lead the way from the club, down the street toward the bars where the music was still loud but the sidewalk was empty. Then, hailing a cab, Jiho yanked Jihoon along, still not bothering to speak. Even the driver was hard to hear.

 

'Kyung,’ he said close to Jihoon’s ear, 'is gonna meet us at the bars.’

 

'Oh?’ _Great_. 'What for?’

 

'A couple drinks, I dunno?’ Jiho sat back against the cab’s backseat. He was looking out the window, speaking loudly when he said, 'That’s alright, yeah?’

 

Jihoon nodded despite his disappointment. He thought of the nights spent in bars where Kyung leaned his elbows on the table and his face less than a meter from Jiho’s own, and all the goggle-eyed flirting that made Jihoon’s face crumple uncomfortably.

 

'He said he’s gonna bring someone,’ Jiho said, his mouth back against Jihoon’s ear. 'You know, so you don’t have to feel all, like, left out or whatever.’

 

Jihoon’s ears burned. 'He didn’t have to do that.’ Then, frantically, as his heart sped up and sweat sprouted over both his palms, 'Tell him not do it, Jiho-yah. I don’t wanna meet anyone.’ But Jiho wasn’t listening, busy lost on his phone and smiling lamely to himself.

 

Jiho reached over the seats and tapped the driver’s shoulder. He said loudly, making the man flinch, ’ _Right here is good, my man. Thank you—_ ’ and he dropped a couple bills into the driver’s open hand.

 

The bar was just like any other bar as bars tended to be quite similar, except for the color of the floors. It was this awful maroon carpet with stains beneath the tables and trails of peanut shells, napkin bits, leading the way from bar to dance floor to the billiards table out back. It was so bad Jihoon thought of leaning over and taking Jiho’s shoulder and whispering to him, _this is the ugliest bar I’ve ever been to_ , but decided not to last minute. For it was moot, and kind of stupid. Nobody cared what the bar looked like. Not even Jihoon, not really, he was just bored and brooding and wanting to go home. At this point the ugly floor was reason enough to hail another cab.

 

Kyung was at the counter, wearing an over-sized cream colored sweater that seemed familiar in a vague sort of way. He was always wearing designer clothes. Jihoon thought maybe he’d seen it in a catalog once before while waiting in the doctor’s office, or the mail room, or somewhere equally boring. But as they came closer and Kyung began to wave, his ecstatic face bursting at the seams, Jihoon realized that it was Jiho’s sweater. And that there was a mark peeking over the sweater’s collar that matched the one on Jiho’s neck near perfectly in color and size.

 

Jihoon cringed as an image of what the two of them had done the night before materialized mercilessly behind his eyelids. He turned away before either of them made notice of his expression and listened as Kyung called over the waitress. She was beautiful too, her hair perfect and black, shining like embers beneath the bar’s neon. Her eyes a piercing blue that was not natural at all but still wonderful to look at. Jihoon groaned— _I’m in love—_ but then she caught him staring and with a roll of her eyes and a silent scoff (he could see the distaste all over her face) she turned away sharply, and Jihoon thought it was better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all.

 

'What are you laughing at?,’ Jiho jabbed. He threw an arm over Jihoon’s shoulders and yanked him close. 'Having fun daydreaming?’

 

Jihoon let himself be dragged from the bar to a table in the far back near the jukebox where a cluster of boys were arguing over what to play.

 

'Where’s your friend?,’ Jiho asked right away. The beer Kyung ordered was sat in the middle, four tall sweaty glasses all pushed together and looking somewhat like a flower. Jihoon swirled his fingertip over the rim of the glass he claimed as his own, wiping away condensation.

 

'The bathroom,’ Kyung said. He grabbed his own beer and swallowed a mouthful. He looked at Jihoon then, all smiles and rosy colored cheeks. He said, 'He’s really nice.’

 

'Who?’ Jihoon asked, not lifting his gaze from the beer.

 

But Kyung didn’t answer. Jihoon watched as he reached again for his beer and then Jiho reached for him, and when Jiho’s fingers touched Kyung’s wrist, Kyung pulled back, smiling flirtatiously with rouge blossoming over his cheeks.

 

It was too much.

 

By the time Kyung’s friend made it back to the table—a long eternity later—Jihoon had buried his face into his phone, playing Tetris and growing wildly irritated with each level he failed. If it hadn’t been for the massive, pale hand that appeared directly in front of him, Jihoon would have never looked up.

 

Kyung’s friend—Jinwoon, or Jinwoo; Jihoon wasn’t paying enough attention to remember—was a rather tall and broad boy who looked more like a man of thirty than anyone Jihoon’s own age. He shook Jihoon’s hand firmly, and said it’d be alright if he wanted to call him Jin for short, and what small amounts of anxiety had been bubbling inside Jihoon fell away quickly. He laughed and said, 'Already using nicknames?,’ horrified by how inviting his own voice sounded. But he went along with it, blushing fiercely, because Jin smiled as if touched by Jihoon’s ability to thaw the ice so quickly into the game. Jihoon let him be charmed by it, let him smile, all the time reveling in the idea of _him_ , Jihoon—who had never had a girlfriend all his life and had lost his first kiss to a boy two years younger than him—had charmed someone. It wasn’t bad. At least for a while. Until Jihoon asked if there was something Jin wanted to hear on the juke, and Jin said, _no, no I don’t really listen to any of that crap_.

 

Crap, Jihoon thought. Crap was his life. Jin didn’t care about music, not in the way Jihoon cared about it. Or the way Jiho cared about it. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t want Jin. Jin didn’t want him. It was purely sexual, Jihoon was sure. It showed in the way Kyung’s eyebrows lifted suggestively when Jin left the table to grab a couple fresh beers. He’d even leaned over and asked, 'Think he’s cute, Jihoonie? Tell me honestly.’

 

Jihoon laughed to soften the blow as he shrugged and said, 'Not really. He’s alright, I guess.’

 

'You’re fucking impossible,’ Jiho groaned. 'You wanna be alone out here forever?’ It might have meant to be a joke, Jihoon wasn’t sure. But there was severity in Jiho’s glance, like maybe it was a serious question. And there was a hundred smart ass remarks Jihoon could think of firing back, but nothing that seemed worth it.

 

So he slouched in his seat and he stared at his hands. He looked up at Jiho, pleadingly like he was going to simply _die_ if they had to stay at the bar a minute longer. 'Can’t we go somewhere else?’

 

'Like where?’ Kyung asked for the both of them. He must have sensed Jiho’s irritation. He’d grabbed Jiho’s knee and was massaging his thigh in tight little circles, reminding Jihoon of an owner petting their dog. The thought made him smile.

 

'Anywhere,’ he muttered.

 

'Sure,’ Kyung said, rising rather quickly as if just struck with a wonderful idea. It was off-putting. 'Let’s go back to my place.’

 

By then Jin had returned with a glass in either hand, the cups dwarfed by how long and thin his fingers were. They were nice fingers. Jihoon wouldn’t mind being touched by them, but the idea of it made his head hurt.

 

'Your place?’ Jin asked, skeptically. 'All of us?’

 

Kyung shrugged and said, 'Why not?’

 

That was how they ended up crammed in the back of a cab with Jihoon riding squished between Kyung and Jin, the two of them laughing about something that happened in the office. Apparently they were co-workers. It wasn’t surprising. Jiho, sat in the front, kept turning around in his seat, reaching back to touch Kyung like his life depended on it, like some dehydrated animal that needed that one lick of water every couple seconds to keep itself alive. They passed a streetlight and he’d touch Kyung’s knee. They braked at a stop sign and he’d touch again. Kyung kept smiling at him too, dark hair falling into his eyes. He’d jerk his head to the side to push the strands away and Jihoon could tell Jiho wanted to reach back and push the hair away himself, but the space between them was too great.

 

Jihoon sighed and leaned his head tiredly to the back of the seat. Watching the two of them made the tension between himself and Jin so much worse, as if he needed another reason to want to be anywhere but where he was.

 

He watched the slopes of light appear on the ceiling of the cab like white stripes, fluttering quickly as they sped down the highway and to the high-rise apartment Kyung lived in. It was a beautiful building, tall and made of brick, all the windows large and see-through, transparent as open air from floor to ceiling. There was something like twelve floors, five units on each landing, which meant the apartment’s themselves were grand and wide and like large open space. Jihoon loved it. Because of the space it was easy to avoid everyone. There was the black matte cupboards of the kitchen that Jihoon hid behind as he pretended to be searching for something. Then into the bathroom with its marble counters and pristine, silver spouts; the creamy color of the sink and toilet and everything: so striking. Jihoon wanted to stay there forever. Even in the bathroom. If it meant being able to call somewhere so pretty home, then he’d live right there next to the trash can. He didn’t care.

 

But Jin seemed to.

 

He followed Jihoon like a lost puppy needing an owner. He’d brush up behind him and touch his waist, which wasn’t so bad. Jin’s palms were warm enough to feel through the cotton of Jihoon’s shirt, and they were steady and strong and made his knees weak—but only a little. He was sure it was more the beer that had turned his bones to fluid rather than Jin himself. Later, Jihoon would think it was simply the immense need to get laid that had put his body on overdrive, his shoulders stiff as he’d lean back against Jin’s chest, letting hands roam freely over his belly, his hips. (But in the days to come, nothing would make Jihoon feel better than knowing he had pushed those hands away when they’d crept too low too quickly.)

 

'You wanna get out of here?’ Jin asked shortly after Jihoon had left the kitchen for the dining table. Music played softly from the living room where Jiho had his face buried into the side of Kyung’s neck, utterly lost and in no way wanting company.

 

Jihoon looked on, stolidly. He was tired.

 

'Not really,’ he eventually responded. Jin’s elbows were propped on the table, a bottle of Pink Moscato opened between the two of them. He had placed glasses on the table, but hadn’t filled either of them; it was now that he seemed to notice this. He filled Jihoon’s glass first.

 

'I don’t mind staying here,’ Jihoon went on once it was clear Jin wasn’t going to speak any further. He eyed the wine in all its pink splendor and thought of rose water, of cherry taffy. He looked at his hands and noticed his knuckles were dry and wondered distantly if Kyung had any lotion in the bathroom, or would he have to go searching through all of the cupboards. Then, all at once, Jihoon realized Jin was staring at him. It was a piercing look, like blue beams of a car’s headlights. It burned.

 

Sitting up straighter, Jihoon pushed away the wine. He softly explained: 'I just—don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I don’t know what Kyungie told you, but I’m not wanting a, um, a relationship?’

 

Jin, noticeably more relaxed, sat low in his seat as if melting into the chair. He crossed his hands over his belly and said: 'Kyung-ah only told me he had a friend that needed company.’ The way he said _company_ sent a fit of butterflies into the pit of Jihoon’s stomach, and they weren’t the nice kind with the lovely flutters but the kind that swarmed, like bees in a whirlwind. He’d been set up for a one night stand.

 

'Ah'—here, it was hard to smile, but he managed—'I don’t really want _that_ either.’ He stressed his words just as well, hoping to match the tone Jin had used, and there was an awful moment of confusion that passed over Jin’s face before finally: realization.

 

It was immediate. Jin’s face flushed a bright impossible pink, just like the wine, and he shuffled to his feet, the chair emitting a terrible screech as it slid over the linoleum floors. He muttered an apology, or so Jihoon thought it was an apology he couldn’t be sure. Desperately, and feeling a little bad, Jihoon called, 'You don’t have to _go—_ ’ but he would have just as soon chased after Jin as he would jump from the balcony. And because he hadn’t bothered to move from the dining table, Jin must have realized this.

 

'I’m sure I’ll see you around,’ he told Jihoon, in a not so sure voice. 'Tell Kyungie I’ll see him at the office.’ He said a goodbye as well, just as the door closed behind him.

 

Then, it was quiet. Jihoon was slouched in utter lonesomeness. Some time in the last fifteen minutes the radio had died away and the music had stopped. It was replaced by the low rumble of the air conditioning, the refrigerator as it kicked on. Everything felt so cool in Kyung’s apartment, so unlike the one Jihoon tried to call home. The very idea of grabbing a cab, going back there by himself, to sit in the sweaty dark was as appealing as going home with Jin. Matter of fact, he thought perhaps Jin’s apartment would have been better.

 

Another swarm of flutters fell into his stomach, painful like hunger cramps, and Jihoon quickly turned his mind away and thought of the wine. He thought of the mint ice cream Kyung had in the freezer, the unlimited films on pay-per-view, and for a moment it all sounded perfect. He could sit back on the large plush sofa that felt the way clouds looked with his feet up on the black granite coffee table. He’d select something racy and interesting to watch and stuff his face with the whole carton of ice cream, maybe move onto the bags of quinoa chips, or order a dosirak if he could find a restaurant that delivered.

 

So many options. And not a single one seemed interesting.

 

Jihoon rose with a groan, his hand about the neck of the wine bottle—he hadn’t realized he was reaching for it until it burned cold against his palm. Then he moved to the front door and slipped into his shoes, stepping out of the apartment where the air curled refreshing and the silence was so thick it was something physical. And how strange it was to slip from unreality into the hallway where it was subtly austere, the sounds of other peoples televisions, washing machines, all mashing together like a string quartet out of tune.

 

*

 

He had moved blindly through the complex, never noticing that all the hallways and all the stairwells had been air conditioned until he passed through the revolving, pinwheel doors from the lobby into the courtyard. The humidity pressed against him all at once; it was an ugly feeling, most uncomfortable, like he’d leaned his hand into something sticky. If it hadn’t been for the pool house lights, not far to his right, Jihoon would have simply turned right back around and scaled those very steps back to Kyung’s apartment. But the lights dimmed a gentle yellow, more welcoming than the piercing lights within the lobby. So, quickly, as not to be caught in the stifling heat, Jihoon walked toward the pool, sighing with relief at the sight of the blue waters. There wasn’t a smidgen of green. Unlike the lake he and Jiho had visited some weeks before, just outside the city limits. It had been an ugly water hole where fish bobbed dully, as if half dead already, and the water had felt thick like the summer winds: hot against his bare feet. The blue waters of the pool seemed virtuous in comparison.

 

As Jihoon pushed through the entrance doors, glad to be out of the smog of summer air, the smell of chlorine washed over him in an awesome wave. He staggered a bit, the wine clinking harmlessly against the pool door. There was someone else here with him. A boy, small and dressed in dark clothing, curled up in a lawn chair with headphones dangling from either ear. But as the bottle clinked—though softly—the boy’s head shot up as if startled.

 

'Sorry,’ Jihoon offered. His voice sounded large and overbearing; he didn’t like it.

 

The other shrugged. A noncommittal motion that seemed so relaxed it had Jihoon slouching forward as his own bones turned to water, no longer caring about anything but himself and the wine.

 

He chose a chair near the shallow end of the pool, though the whole of the pool seemed shallow. It couldn’t have reached over two meters, if even that. And the floor of the pool was a bright white, startling clean and nice to look at. Jihoon kicked his shoes underneath the chair and, rolling his pants up to his shins, sat with his feet on the top stair of the pool.

 

The water was warm. It was inviting. He opened the wine and took a sip straight from the bottle.

 

'Rough night, or something?’

 

A prickling of cold touched the nape of Jihoon’s neck as he turned, wondering, to look over his shoulder. Of course it had only been the boy. Smiling, Jihoon shrugged. 'I guess? I dunno.’ He leaned his palm to the poolside, the wine left on the ledge. 'I ended up third wheeling for my hyung. And, um, well—’ he slumped— 'I guess that’s not right. I had a date. Right? But he was, like, totally weird and kind of creepy. So…’

 

The other smiled, amused. 'Sorry to hear that.’

 

'Yeah…’

 

Silence followed, not entirely uncomfortable. Jihoon watched as the water lapped at the sides of the pool, a small sloshing sound as if the pool was a cup, and the cup too full. He kicked his feet gently to see the water spill over the ledge, wetting the wine bottle.

 

Then, without thought, he crawled to his feet and pointed to the empty chair beside the boy, silently asking if it was alright to join him. The other shrugged as if to say, _go ahead_ , and it was nice to think that he wouldn’t have to be his own company tonight.

 

'What’s that?’ Jihoon said too loudly, pointing to the book the other was holding. It was thin and in bad condition, as if left in the rain and then ironed flat again. The pages made an unattractive flittering sound when they were turned.

 

The boy turned the book in his hands. Jihoon’s attention was immediately drawn to the splash of color across the back of his palms, his fingers; lines like maps drawn into pictures, cartoon-ish but nice.

 

'Those are cool,’ Jihoon muttered distantly. He was pointing again, the very tip of his finger brushing lightly over the tattoos. And realizing what he’d done, Jihoon pulled away quickly enough to give himself whiplash.

 

The boy smiled, ostensibly unburdened by the touch. 'Thanks.’

 

With a scoff, Jihoon feigned indifference. 'No… problem. Sure.’

 

It was unnerving how easily this stranger caught on. He tilted his head, like Jihoon had said something funny, and looked—a little _too_ closely, if one were to ask Jihoon—into his face. Then, without being asked, he said, 'Lee Taeil,’ and offered his hand.

 

Jihoon thought long and hard—for about half a second—if he should take Taeil’s hand. He didn’t like the warmth creeping into his face, nor the way Taeil’s eyes pierced through him entirely. But his hand looked soft, his fingers somewhat short and plump. Jihoon thought they were cute hands, wholesome hands. So he took Taeil’s hand into his own and squeezed it gently, wondering if it was obvious how tipsy he so suddenly felt.

 

'So,'—the ice had been broken, and the way paved for better conversation—'the book?’ Jihoon scooted closer. Taeil’s gaze, as heavy as it was, fell away almost immediately. He brushed his hand over the cover as if touching a beloved pet.

 

With pause, and what Jihoon thought might have been regret, he muttered, 'It’s nothing.’ Then, with his nose scrunched as if he’d tasted something bad, 'I mean, it’s nothing you would have read.’

 

Jihoon’s brow creased. 'Why—’

 

'I _mean_ '—Taeil laughed, embarrassed and small, a breathy sound that was like a sigh that Jihoon loved instantly—'I wrote it. When I was maybe sixteen. It’s nothing,’ he repeated. It was as if he thought the more he said it, the truer the words became.

 

But Jihoon was too enamored of the idea of knowing a writer—a _real_ artist—someone who had created something with their own hands to notice any of the discomfort passing over Taeil’s face. 'You wrote a fucking _book_?’ He came closer still, knees bouncing excitedly. 'That’s —Like, a real book? That’s awesome—’

 

Taeil laughed. It was a genuine sound. So kind it made Jihoon’s heart stop abruptly. 'It’s not even published. Don’t worry about it.’ And before Jihoon could beg to see it, Taeil set the book aside, beneath the chair he was lounged in.

 

'You live here?’ he asked then, quiet and small. He seemed to curl into himself as he pulled his knees into his body.

 

'Ah,’ Jihoon copied the stance, 'no. My hyung does. Maybe you know him… Park Kyung?’

 

Taeil shook his head. 'I don’t think so.’

 

'Just moved in?’

 

'Kind of.’ He paused, awaiting Jihoon to say something more, but instead Jihoon took a deep pull from the wine. He offered the bottle and Taeil eyed it skeptically before accepting it.

 

It was cute in some odd way the way Taeil first stared down the neck of the bottle, like he was making sure there wasn’t anything weird inside. Then he swirled the wine around in the bottle, his upper lip curling like he’d seen something especially unpleasant. But then he took a sip, and then another, until he finally took a good pull and handed it back.

 

 

'Good?’ Jihoon asked, mirroring Taeil’s nod.

 

It wasn’t long before they had put away half the bottle, both of them a step away from drunk, and their voices grew louder, their conversation much lighter than before. Jihoon heard himself telling Taeil about his apartment, and the summer’s unforgiving heat. How he’d have to wander shirtless for most the day because of the humidity that seemed to melt through the walls and every closed window. He told Taeil why he was in the city, and the gigs he and Jiho had done their first weeks there. How terrible they had turned out to be, and the fight Jiho had gotten into behind some shitty bar called Pineyard.

 

Taeil listened politely, laughing when Jihoon laughed, and his eyes were bright like pins of light behind his round frames. There was the glare of the water reflecting brightly, and sparkles of light like fireflies caught there, in the light brown of his eyes. Jihoon thought they were the dreamiest eyes he had ever seen.

 

Drunk and unabashed, he decided this was something Taeil needed to know. Leaning in, as if confiding a weighty secret, Jihoon mused, 'Your eyes are really pretty. Did you know that?’

 

Color blossomed over Taeil’s face. He snorted a laugh that seemed disbelieving. 'You think?’

 

'Totally.’

 

Very suddenly—for Taeil had a habit Jihoon was beginning to notice of changing the subject very quickly—he said, 'Wanna get in the pool?’ He didn’t wait for a response before teetering to his feet. He took another large drink from the bottle and peeled off the long sleeved shirt he’d been wearing, essentially exposing a canvas of colors and swirling pictures, so many tattoos Jihoon gawked. All of this was drawn neatly over sharp lines of muscle.

 

Jihoon’s voice was lost. He numbly rose to his feet, taking his own shirt off. He felt slightly cool by the toned lines of his hips and how his ribs looked beneath his skin, but everything else felt awkwardly thin and slender, his whole body gangling like a teenagers. He followed after Taeil, feeling more intoxicated than he had all night, and he hadn’t had a drink for at least twenty minutes.

 

Leaning to the pool’s ledge, Jihoon—able to touch his feet to the ground even in the deepest parts—was smitten with how Taeil’s legs kicked, his arms pinwheeling about beneath the water. He really had to work to keep himself afloat. Jihoon wondered what Taeil would do if he put his arm about Taeil’s middle, helped keep his head above water.

 

'So, um—’ heat burned like wildfire across Jihoon’s cheeks— 'why did you move here?’

 

'It was closer to my work.’

 

'Yeah? Where’s that?’

 

'Up town.’ Taeil had a hand on the side of the pool, his legs still kicking. Jihoon distracted himself from the water on Taeil’s shoulders that looked like dew drops on small flower petals. They shined under the overhead lights.

 

'I do some freelance stuff,’ Taeil explained, his voice sounding small and far off. Then, a little louder as he swam closer: 'But mostly I write articles for the newsprint. Uh, magazines too. Nothing very—’ his voice dropped to a much softer tone as he hovered just beside Jihoon, 'important.’ He was close enough that Jihoon could feel his warmth. The water rose and rippled, miniature waves licking at the sides of the pool. He was very aware of how badly he wanted to kiss Taeil.

 

'Sounds important,’ he said softly. 'I think it’s cool that you write stuff.’

 

With a small scoff, Taeil kicked from the wall and shot like a pellet across the water to the opposite side. He wasn’t far, but it felt like miles had been thrown between them. Jihoon, without notice, followed Taeil’s lead.

 

'They’re only articles. It isn’t like I’m writing novels.’

 

'No… but it’s still cool.’

 

'I think what _you_ do is really nice.’

 

'DJ'ing?’

 

'Making music.’

 

Somehow they had ended up back in the shallow end, Taeil now able to stand on his own feet. Above the water, his chest was broad and wet and glimmering like glitter.

 

'I’ve always liked the idea of making music,’ he said. 'Singing, maybe. I don’t know.’

 

'Why don’t you try it?’

 

He smiled, cheeks glowing pink. 'I’ll leave it to the professionals.’ He swam off again, wide biceps flexing as he pushed aside the water and glided swiftly to the deep end.

 

Jihoon, close behind, gripped the wall as Taeil continued: 'You DJ around here, right? Maybe I can come see you.’

 

The image of Taeil watching closely, his eyes like coronas of fairy lights in a crowd of strangers, was so striking Jihoon thought he’d die from it. He was smiling, he could feel the muscles lifting in his cheeks, but lost in his daydream Jihoon wasn’t sure. He only hoped he didn’t look too strange.

 

The crashing of water, like something spilled, broke through what haze Jihoon was lost in and placed him into another. He watched, confused, as the muscles in Taeil’s back rippled, his shorts wringing wet and leaving puddles all over the poolside. He’d have asked where Taeil was going if he thought he could speak, but his face was burning as he looked over all the lines of Taeil’s body and the colors of his tattoos; he was a like a floral canvas all delicate and pretty, but in no real way breakable.

 

So he stayed in the pool for a moment longer, until Taeil had wrung all the water from the legs of his shorts. Then, slowly, Jihoon climbed over the edge, never minding the stairs or the railings, and stood, shivering, able to feel the warmth radiating like the sun from Taeil’s shoulders.

 

'It’d, um, it’d.. be cool if you came to a gig,’ Jihoon said carefully. He didn’t like Taeil’s back facing him any more than he liked standing, dripping water onto a cold floor. He was sticky with humidity, his hair not feeling wet with chemicals but with sweat.

 

Taeil glanced over his shoulder. His eyes didn’t catch Jihoon’s own, but he was smiling all the same. A little quirk of his mouth. Really charming, Jihoon thought.

 

'Yeah?’

 

Jihoon nodded. Taeil wasn’t looking. 'I don’t know when that would.. be, but —I could let you know?’

 

Taeil was still smiling when he finally turned around, his eyes soft and the curl of his mouth kind. He paused briefly, though it was long enough Jihoon’s heart began to stumble as he wondered if Taeil would ask for his number, tell Jihoon his own. But what came instead sent sheets of ice floundering into the very bottom of Jihoon’s stomach.

 

'Do you wanna come upstairs?’

 

The silence lasted forever.

 

Until: 'With… you?’

 

Tilting his head gently, Taeil asked, 'Who else?’ He grabbed the book beneath his chair and the wine bottle beside it, fluid sloshing loudly in the emptiness. There was a faint stumble about his steps, as if the world was tilting beneath him and he could feel every motion; Jihoon understood the feeling. He felt it too, like standing on a balance beam with no way off. He held onto himself, his arms crossed over his chest and his elbows within his palms. Jihoon followed with a blush creeping steadily into his face.

 

*

 

Taeil’s apartment was so enormously different than Kyung’s it was hard for Jihoon to believe that they were part of the same building. Placed on the ninth floor, high above all the others, Jihoon gawked over the balcony’s steel rail. All around him there was space: open space, wide space, floor space, a little overwhelming and seemingly too large. The city stretched over miles of air, the sky close but closed off by the looming buildings that appeared close enough to touch. There was light all around: white and blue, golds of the marquee, scrawling red lettering that announced the featured play, the non-vacant hotels. Not far from the place Jihoon pretend was home and yet: it felt as if he was in a new world entirely.

 

'Gonna stay out here the whole time?’ Taeil asked, not unkindly, from the doorway. He had changed from his wet clothes and into something much nicer: a button-up that smelled freshly starched, slacks that hung a little low on his broad hips. He looked neat but still smelled strongly of chlorine. Jihoon could smell his own clothes so thick with chemicals he thought maybe he’d spend the rest of his life smelling this way.

 

'No, um, I was just…’ He made a motion toward the city and felt foolish immediately. Taeil nodded and it wasn’t like he was pretending to understand—Jihoon thought maybe he really did—but when Jihoon turned away from the doorway and looked back out at the dim horizon that didn’t seem to really be there—so contorted with artificial light there seemed to be no beginning nor end to the sky line—it no longer looked as bright, or beautiful. He turned back to the doorway and looked at Taeil who was looking past the railing and out toward the buildings, pinpoints of light reflecting brightly over his lenses like falling stars, Jihoon was left feeling scatterbrained. Like he’d never form a full thought again.

 

Taeil’s gaze shifted from the buildings to Jihoon’s face, eyes on fire catching Jihoon’s own. Standing there, the only sound that of passing cabs and rumbling engines like empty air full of static, they stared.

 

'You’re really handsome,’ Jihoon muttered softly. There was no telling if Taeil had heard him. No inclination passed over his face, but rather he stepped back inside, his shoulders relaxed as if tired, and disappeared through the dark threshold that was his apartment.

 

Inside, with the windows open and the air turned off, the sounds of far off noise followed like a dirty storm cloud. Jihoon heard the press of traffic like the sound of winds beneath an airplane’s wing, and felt the pressure of the noise as if he was underwater: his ears rang uncomfortably.

 

He said, 'I didn’t make you feel weird, did I?’ He never noticed the way his fingers twisted together as if wringing water from his hands.

 

Taeil smiled weakly, shook his head.

 

On the table lay a short stack of mail, envelopes that looked important, some sealed with tape that read **Priority** in large, blocky characters. There was an old mug of coffee, black and surely stale with a wet ring of brown around the rim. Jihoon stared hard into the mug, his eyes unseeing, his stomach full of knots. He noticed when Taeil moved closer then, his small hands stuffed deeply into his pockets, but he pretend not to.

 

Then, carefully, Taeil asked, 'Do you wanna kiss me?’

 

To which Jihoon had no real answer.

 

'Because if you do want to…’

 

Jihoon glanced up.

 

'—I mean, if you were thinking about it,’

 

He couldn’t help but grin. His cheeks flaming with heat as he reached out with a surprisingly steady hand and touched Taeil’s cheek. 'I was thinking about it,’ he said softly.

 

Taeil nodded with his lips bitten hard into his mouth. Then all at once he came forward, his firm body pressing hard into Jihoon’s chest. His hands never left his pockets and his heels never left the floor, but as Taeil tilted his head back, craning his neck to press his face closer to Jihoon, Jihoon found himself leaning down, leaning in, with his arms about Taeil’s shoulders.

 

Jihoon decided right then and there, with his hands moving up the curve of Taeil’s spine, that he didn’t want to kiss anyone else—never again. Taeil’s lips were thin and his mouth was small, but it was soft and warm just like his tongue. He tasted like the grapes of the wine with a hint of something stronger, smokier, emitting warmth like a heater; Jihoon felt comfortably numbed. The edges of Taeil’s jaw fit perfectly within the curve of Jihoon’s palms, as if his hands had been crafted for Taeil’s body only. There was no awkward balance, the world didn’t shift beneath them but rather shifted with them and pressed them together with an almost enigmatic closeness; Jihoon was sure he could feel Taeil’s heart bursting within the delicate confines of his chest, beating wildly as if wanting to jump to freedom.

 

And as Taeil’s mouth moved in gentle motions, like waves of the northern sea—calm and undisturbed—, a storm blazed incredible in the marrow of Jihoon’s bones. To kiss Taeil was to be on fire, without hope for help, burning all at once.

 

As Taeil pulled away Jihoon wondered if they’d go to the room, if he should ask. Would they stay on the sofa in the dim light of the balcony’s florescence, or was Taeil the type to turn off all the lights, the television too, and stay in a room of pitch black? But a moment later and Jihoon knew: none of this actually mattered.

 

Taeil’s face was flushed pink, his eyes small and downcast, sparkling like gold as he blinked nervously. 'Um,’ he touched the front of his shirt as if flattening out any possible wrinkles. 'Do you like coffee?’

 

'Not… really.’

 

Taeil nodded, still staring at the floor.

 

'Do you have tea?’

 

He looked up then, his eyes alight and all the worry that lined his face smoothed out. And Jihoon knew there would be no locked doors that night. He thought he’d be lucky if Taeil kissed him again (which he did, much later, after the sun had started to rise and the air had grown muggy—too warm for the windows to be left open), and he thought that was just as well. Because Taeil’s hand was soft and small the way his mouth had been, and when he leaned his heavy shoulder into Jihoon’s chest he felt hard and stable, something Jihoon couldn’t remember ever feeling.

 

He took the tea that was offered him. Something creamy brown, the color of sandalwood, and sat with his legs crossed on the living room rug. Some time that night, after the city lights dulled to the vibrance of stars and the TV shows stopped being funny and all the noise died away to nothing at all, Taeil leaned his head to the cusp of Jihoon’s shoulder. It was as if he fit there—perfectly.

 

*

 

It was easier to come another time after the first time, and then again after that. Some nights at midnight, sometimes at 2AM. Once even at 9 in the morning after Kyung had gone to work and Jiho lie asleep in Kyung’s bed, all the glitters of morning light falling like confetti over the polished, pearl insides of Kyung’s apartment. And it was strange if Jihoon allowed himself to think about it: meeting Taeil, touching him, letting himself fall into muddled pits of emotion like trenches that kept hold of him all night through. So he didn’t think hard about it, and simply let his bones melt and all the worries of the city fall from his shoulders like running water—and it felt right. All of it: simply right.

 

He’d touch the side of Taeil’s neck and feel his pulse like leaves in a strong wind, fluttering at the ends of their branches, and he’d kiss the spot just beneath Taeil’s jaw and feel the flutter against his mouth and he’d think: this was what he’d left home for.

 

/

 

It was mid July—two months after Jihoon had left home, and five weeks since he’d met Taeil—and the air had turned notoriously thick. It reminded Jihoon of how his mouth felt after he and Jiho had sneaked a joint in the bathroom, back in high school: hard to swallow and miserable, by far. But because the complex was only two blocks from the bar he and Jiho had been for the past two hours, instead of taking a cab they walked in dull hope of sobering themselves.

 

'You’re coming over?,’ Jiho asked loudly, trying to yell over the passing traffic, but his voice was drowned to a muffled whisper.

 

Jihoon checked his phone for what felt like the hundredth time that evening (and every time he placed his thumb over the button, his heart would whirl like the fan of a jet plane, hope burbling within his chest), but there was still no word from Taeil. He imagined Taeil at the business party—where he was now—dreading the conversations as he sat drinking cocktails that, according to him, tasted like salt water mixed with piss.

 

'Well?’ Jiho nudged him.

 

'I guess so.’

 

But all the while as he sat in Kyung’s apartment, watching the beams of light form like pictures over eggshell white walls, he thought of the shadowy coronas of Taeil’s bedroom, and the sultry heat that emerged sticky from the balcony doorway. It moved in waves like melted wax: thick and omnipresent. It made Jihoon think of Taeil’s mouth, his wet kisses and early morning breath that smelled of sleep, and the late nights when Jihoon would wake uncomfortable and hot with his arms wound tightly around Taeil’s body. Taeil would kick the blankets away and then lie open like a flower, all his limbs outstretched, his shirt riding high over his tummy, and where his shoulder met his body Jihoon would lay his head, and sleep deeply until morning.

 

'What’s the matter?,’ Kyung asked. His voice broke through Jihoon’s reverie easily, booming louder than any other noise in the whole apartment. 'You look tired.’

 

'Leave him alone,’ Jiho called from the kitchen. 'He’s drunk.’

 

Jihoon felt his own face contort into a mask of something ugly, maybe offense—though he didn’t feel very offended—and then felt the prod of Kyung’s finger against his cheek. He was saying, 'Jihoonie, you look so _bored_.’

 

He wanted to explain that he was tired and a little stoned, but he hadn’t smoked only drank. But he felt stoned all the same as if the world was moving like molasses; time had stopped and gathered sticky between his fingers. It wouldn’t budge.

 

'Um—’ was all he managed.

 

Kyung leaned his head to the curve of Jihoon’s shoulder, his feather-like hair tickling the underside of Jihoon’s jaw. When he spoke his hair moved with the wind of the air conditioner like the fluttering leaves of an enormous tree in dull, autumn air. 'You used to love coming here. What happened?’ His whine was ostensibly forced, a playful tone with mild honesty mixed within.

 

Jihoon smiled. 'Don’t think too much, Kyungie.’

 

'I’m not cool anymore?’ He batted his eyes up at Jihoon.

 

From the kitchen doorway, Jiho muttered vaguely, 'You were never cool.’ But besides an icy glare which lasted only a moment, Kyung let this remark slip by unnoticed.

 

'Do you wanna do something?’ Kyung tried. 'How about the pool? The clubhouse? We can go to the bars again. I think there’s something open in the lobby. How about ordering something on pay-per-view?’ After Jihoon shook his head for the third time, Kyung sighed.

 

'You’re being difficult,’ he said and gently pinched the skin of Jihoon’s cheek. Jihoon pulled his chin to his chest as if suddenly bashful; and he was thinking Kyung was awfully patient to deal with him tonight, and that maybe they could watch a movie from the pile of DVD’s Kyung kept beneath the entertainment center. But before any of this was made into words, a faint knock rapped on the front door.

 

Jihoon knew, far before Jiho left to answer the knock, that it was Taeil. His phone still lay undisturbed, no calls nor texts, but he knew. And when Jiho came sauntering back to the living room with a smirk lifting the corner of his otherwise slack mouth, Jihoon bound to his feet.

 

’ _Yah_ ,’ Kyung laughed kindly. 'You’re leaving?’

 

Jihoon looked to Jiho expectantly, hopeful. He smiled when Jiho nodded, then turned to Kyung and said, 'Thanks for, uh—’ He grappled for words. 'I dunno. But thanks, hyung.’ Then he pushed past Jiho with a squeeze to his shoulder and slipped out the door that stood open just enough that Jihoon could see the toes of Taeil’s sneakers.

 

Taeil smiled immediately. His small upper lip pulled thin over his teeth as color dusted his cheeks. He said, 'My service is shit. I tried calling you for the past hour.’ But this went mostly unheard as Jihoon took in Taeil’s calm demeanor: his baggy jeans and black over-shirt. He had a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. He looked so much older, Jihoon felt his knees turn to rubber.

 

'That’s ok,’ he said numbly.

 

Taeil’s smiled faltered. 'You alright?’

 

'You went to the party like that? Dressed like that.’

 

'Something wrong with it?’

 

Jihoon blushed a deep red. The tips of his ears warmed and he looked at the floor. 'No. I was just wondering.’ Taeil touched his elbow then, his small fingers wrapping loosely about Jihoon’s arm.

 

He moved closer, his words a soft whisper that came out breathy and low. Shivers all over Jihoon’s arms and legs, he knew Taeil noticed. 'I wore the suit I showed you. Remember?’ And Jihoon did. Of course he did. Taeil in a bow tie with a black vest and gold pocket chain. It was burned behind his eyes for what he was sure would be the rest of his life.

 

'It was uncomfortable,’ Taeil said. His mouth brushed Jihoon’s jaw lightly. 'So I changed. You don’t like it?’

 

'No — _Yes_ , um, I—’ Jihoon sighed. 'I do. You look… nice.’ Humiliation flooded through him in waves. Too worried about the ache in his stomach and the burn of his ears, Jihoon hardly noticed when Taeil pushed up on the balls of his feet and nosed against his cheek. But then his mouth was pressed softly to Jihoon’s own, and he tasted like coffee and cigars.

 

'You wanna go out for a little bit?’ Taeil asked.

 

Jihoon nodded without thought, unsure if there was anything open so late. But twenty minutes later and a couple blocks south of the complex, they found a small restaurant open all night; and at a table in the far back, beneath dim lights like candle light, Jihoon sat with his leg flush against Taeil’s own, playing with Taeil’s fingers atop the table.

 

They had flutes of champagne and raspberry sorbet, and when Taeil kissed him beneath the dull light his mouth was icy and firm. It was as if he’d been chewing on ice chips all evening.

 

'Did you miss me?’ Jihoon asked timidly, more confident in the dark with champagne coating his throat. He leaned his forehead to the side of Taeil’s neck and listened to his breathy laugh.

 

'Yeah. Course I did.’

 

'That’s why you came looking for me?’

 

Taeil leaned his face to the top of Jihoon’s head. His breath was cold like his kisses. 'I left early because I wanted to see you.’

 

'Yeah?’

 

'I thought maybe the next time there’s a party'—he tipped his face toward Jihoon’s own, trying to catch his eye—'you’d like to go with me.’

 

Biting his lower lip, Jihoon laughed lightly. He couldn’t stop from grinning, his whole face enveloped in warmth. 'Do I get to wear a suit, too?’

 

'You can wear whatever you want.’

 

Another two glasses of champagne appeared on the table then and Taeil asked for the tab, for a small bowl of the strawberry sorbet with the little pieces of fruit in it, and as he fished his wallet from his back pocket—his small hands fumbling with credit cards—Jihoon imagined what it’d be like to dress up in a three piece suit with a pressed, starched shirt underneath. He liked to think that Taeil would help him choose the colors best to wear, something bright and pretty like lavender or rose. Flowers were always good colors to stick to. And he imagined them in the backseat of a high-end cab, not one of the many stained and smelly kind that drove back and forth through the avenues, but a real one with a sunroof and a partition that rolled up by a little button in the back seat. He thought of Taeil kissing him under chandelier lights with the ghost glow of stars overhead like twinkling fireflies caught in the vast black of the sky, and Taeil would touch Jihoon’s hand and tell him how handsome he was.

 

'Why are you smiling?’ Taeil asked, giving a smile of his own.

 

Jihoon looked at his hands. 'I just remembered I dunno how to tie a tie.’

 

'That’s alright,’ he said. 'I can teach you.’


End file.
